


Blood and Praxis

by Il-Papa-Patata (Emby_M)



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Anti-capitalist Mary, Burlesque, Established Relationship, Gay Bar, Ghost is Ghosts AU, M/M, fake blood and gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28195635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emby_M/pseuds/Il-Papa-Patata
Summary: “...Swiss!” The man says, his clear eyes bright, grinning, “Damn, Mary's got a good taste.”“I feel like everyone in this place knows me already.”“Uh, yeah, sweetie,” the man rolls his eyes, popping a hip. He's in short-shorts with iridescent tights underneath, and it's quite the look, “You're all Mare ever talks about. He's just always gushing about how sweet you are, and howoh, Swiss took me out on a motorcycle ride into the country-” The man rolls his eyes, pursing his lips, “Wish I had a boyfriend like that.”-Mary invites Swiss to the place he's been working to show him a fun time.
Relationships: Mary Goore/Multi Ghoul | Swiss Army Ghoul
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Blood and Praxis

_8pm, don't forget. The dive bar Whazit-Tooya. Bring 10 euro for the cover charge. Dress fun._

The note was on the kitchen table this morning, and now it's in Swiss's pocket as he meanders through the streets of Rome.

He'd laughed at Mary's familiar chicken-scratch – permanently italicized, as if everything was _rushed_ and _hurried._ As he ate breakfast – weird that Mary was up before him, but that's how it's been lately – he pondered exactly what was going down at the bar that night. Mary normally was capricious about these things – he'd found favorite haunts, definitely, but tended to flow between them like water, rather than make specific plans to be somewhere.

Swiss can't remember going to this place, either. He's heard a little about it from others – something about freaks and weirdos, which describes Swiss as well, but other than that, it's a mystery.

The expected part is the winding, odd path he has to take to find the entrance. The unexpected part is that when he finally manages to find it thanks to Mary's little scrawled map, it's in the basement of a small private library. Places like this tended to be under other things, but it's usually things like sex shops, not well-kept, tidy little libraries.

Swiss descends the stairs, where there's someone waiting. They have close-cropped hair, a tough leather jacket on their shoulders, and they stand next to a stool with a stamp and a freshly-poured beer. They look up, judging him over, before grinning broadly.

“Ah, you must be Switzy,” the person says, holding out a hand to shake. Swiss takes it, appreciating the grip. “Mary's told me a lot about you. I'm Toni.”

“Nice to meet you. He, uh, he told you I was coming?”

“He didn't _stop_ telling me for like a week. 'My boyfriend's coming, be nice to him, he's big and tall and handsome waaah'.”

“Well,” Swiss laughs, starting to pull out his wallet, “I'm embarrassed.”

“No, no,” they say, holding up a hand, “Mary's covered you already.”

“He told me to bring ten euro?”

“Hm,” Toni says, cocking their head, “Dunno why. Seriously, it's free, go on in.”

“No, no,” Swiss insists, “I'd just feel weird about not paying. Just take it. Let someone else get in, on me.”

Toni's eyebrow cocks. “You're just like he described,” they grin.

Toni stamps the back of his hand with a violet-shaped stamp, gesturing him inside. “Bar's to the left, stage is to the right. Although you can get to either from either side. You got time to get a drink before the show starts.”

“Show?”

“Oh man,” Toni grins more, “He didn't tell you?”

Swiss shakes his head.

“Oh man. Well. Starts at 8:15. S'fun, you should watch it.”

Swiss descends into the bar.

Immediately, Swiss loves the vibe of this place. White painted brick and wooden floors, low light, and the people- well, the people.

Shocks of gloriously patterned silk, leather, lace – wigs and hair of every conceivable texture and color, makeup as simple as nothing and as extravagant as magenta eyeshadow and green lipstick. These people are-

Well, it's obviously a bar for queer folk like himself.

Swiss smiles despite himself. He's not human, at least, not all the way, but it feels- okay, in this crowd. Who knows, there might be other ghosts in this crowd, he'd never know with the verve and vibe, the way people throw on time like it was something to do.

He makes his way over to the bar where a tiny, muscular woman – proudly wearing a violet pin on her shirt collar – shakes drinks and doles them out.

“What can I- oh. my. God!” She exclaims, “You must be Mary's boyfriend!”

That calls several eyes – eyes with cocked eyebrows – over to him.

“The very same,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck shyly.

“Oh you are so cute!” she says, stepping up onto a platform built into the bar and reaching up to pinch his cheeks, “Lookit this adorably freckly face, oh my god, you're just like he said-”

“Bebe,” A slim, dark man says, slipping behind the bar too, “You're scaring him off.”

“I'm good,” Swiss assures her, but appreciates that she steps away. The long, dark man has his head shaved, but also has two long dangling earrings made of tiny punched-gold coins dripping from his ears. He slips a secret little smile to Swiss as he heads to the far side of the bar, tying an apron around his waist.

“What can I get you?” Bebe says, hands on her hips, “No, no, let me guess.”

Swiss becomes aware of the eyes on him, many of them. He _is_ pretty tall, and Bebe had made a startling entrance for him, and he's wearing a lavender shirt with tiny grucifixes woven into the material, but -- he sort of wants to shoo the looks away, even if they don't feel mean at all. If anything, they're kind of pleasantly curious, maybe like a family gathering with a sudden new beau in their mix.

“A cosmo!” She points, with a finality.

“Whoa,” Swiss gapes, “Yeah! How'd you know?”

“It's her superpower,” the dark man intones, coming behind Bebe again to grab a bottle of curacao.

“I've never been wrong,” Bebe says, “'Cept my girlfriend. She kept me guessing.”

She mixes it deftly – lemon vodka and triple sec, lime juice and cranberry – and serves it to him with a tiny sword stuck through a lime twist.

Swiss tries to reach for his wallet again, but Bebe just tuts, shaking her head.

“On the house, sweetheart,” she grins, “I'd love to chat but the show's starting, and I'm sure you don't want to miss it.” She winks, and so does the man with the earrings, waving lightly.

He wanders over through a large archway cut into the brick wall – this side is larger, much larger than the library above would suggest, although the small half-windows at the far wall suggest a garden growing in the back, so maybe that was it. The space is friendly – some chairs and tables in a lower section, a railing with a small counter-top slung along the upper, good for leaning. At the far back corner is a curved stage, slightly proud from the wall to hide a bit of a wing. It's draped in heavy velvet curtains that have definitely seen better days but are almost better for it. People mill about, some sit, a couple have plates or baskets of food, most everyone has a drink.

Swiss leans onto one of the railings, sipping his drink. It's a real good cosmo, but he sips slowly. He usually keeps pretty sober, so he's used to nursing one drink per night.

Actually-

There's a thin man walking through the crowd with a tray of food and drink.

Swiss flags him down, and the man leans the tray on the railing, asking him cheerfully what he'd like-

“...Swiss!” The man says, his clear eyes bright, grinning, “Damn, Mary's got a good taste.”

“I feel like everyone in this place knows me already.”

“Uh, yeah, sweetie,” the man rolls his eyes, popping a hip. He's in short-shorts with iridescent tights underneath, and it's quite the look, “You're all Mare ever talks about. He's just always gushing about how sweet you are, and how _oh, Swiss took me out on a motorcycle ride into the country-_ ” The man rolls his eyes, pursing his lips, “Wish I had a boyfriend like that.”

Swiss laughs, extending a hand, “I didn't get your name?”

“Gian. But I go by Salai.”

“After Da Vinci's Salai.”

“No,” Salai grins, “Not after him. I _am_ him.”

Swiss's lip curls into a smile. Whether it's a joke or not, it hits right at home.

“Ah, well I have to give you some honor,” Swiss says, “since you're a century older than me. And I have to respect my elders.”

Salai guffaws a laugh. “Alright, alright, don't be cheeky. Whaddya want?”

Swiss picks out a bottle of water (good for drinking slow) and a small plate of arancini (good for sopping up the alcohol). Salai opens up the small cash pouch at his hip, which prompts Swiss to take out his wallet, but the young man instead hands him a little note, pinched between two fingers like it was something gross. “Mare said to give this to you. Don't wanna know what kind cooties and germs this thing's got on it, but it's yours. Don't try to pay me cause I'll be forced to punch Mary in the nose for it.”

Swiss takes it gratefully, tucking it into his shirt pocket.

“Thank you Salai.”

“Pfft. Don't thank me. Thank your crazy-ass boyfriend. He worked like, twelve hour shifts a couple times a week so he could make sure we wouldn't make you pay. Even though he coulda just asked – this place does fine business and we don't need some German upstart coming in here thinking we'll be in the red if his boyfriend doesn't spend a couple euro.”

The lights dim slightly, a spotlight coming on.

“Oho, show's starting. See you around, Swissy, have fun~”

Salai picks up his tray, settling it onto his shoulder again, and swats at Swiss's ass as he passes.

Swiss chuckles. More people come in from the bar at the change of lighting, as the emcee comes out from the wing, taking a few preemptive bows to the applause that rises.

“Thank you, thank you!” calls a voice like smooth sea glass. The person it belongs to is perfectly made up in a pinstriped suit that makes them look eight meters tall, with their curly blond hair piled thick in a bun at the top of their head. It's quite the look. “Thank you all for joining us tonight at Kinsey's Korner,” the person laughs, “I am your host Rosario, and I am so delighted to bring you four lovely performers tonight. It should be quite the treat, ladies, gentlemen, those of us who know better-” A wave of laughter through the crowd. Swiss laughs too. “Our first performer of the night – Eeny Meeny, the runt of our litter. Take it away Eeny!”

A very petite lady steps out onto the stage to a slinking soundtrack of piano keys, wearing a short little nightdress and cat ears. It's quite cute, and certainly from the low whistles she gets, she's someone's type. She gives a pretty little wiggle, presenting to the audience there there's a little tail sewn onto the briefs below the short little nightdress, the fuzzy end of it swaying as she mimes staring back behind the stage.

Oh, so it's burlesque. Swiss laughs gently. Mary sometimes did stage managing for odd jobs, so he might be doing that now.

Eeny wriggles out of the nightdress, exposing little breasts in cat-shaped pasties. The whistles increase, and Eeny smiles wide. Very sweet. If Swiss was into women, he'd be having a hell of a time, but he's not, so he just claps politely. More people have crowded in now, a person at each of his elbows. He eats a bit of the arancini, liking the flavor, thinking to make some for Mary sometime. It wasn't like it was all that hard.

Everyone claps- Swiss is knocked out of his thoughts by it and claps too, watching a now bright-pink and almost-nude Eeny scamper off the stage as Rosario takes it again – now in a completely different outfit, a luxe berry-colored gown that trails on the floor. The hair is the same, though.

“Thank you Eeny, you sweet little kitten,” Rosario says, grinning slyly, “Quite a cute little one, isn't she? Lovely little thing, makes you want to eat her right up-” The crowd laughs, clearly some joke Swiss doesn't get.

Oh. Right, the note.

Swiss fishes it out of his pocket. Rosario continues on, but Swiss is occupied by this note that's crammed with his boyfriend's handwriting – tiny scrawls and scribbles interspersed with doodles and drawings. It looks a bit like a cheat sheet Swiss might have written when he first joined the clergy, unable to keep his Hail Liliths and Devil's Prayers straight during masses.

“Hi Switzy” Mary starts, at the very tiptop corner, “sorry I havent been home much ive been here a lot bc I wanted to show you something”.

This, presumably, and this place.

“it's a nice place and I bet youll like it everyone's very nice and theyre all cool and like, half of them are already dead which is pretty cool. Been doing a lot of bartending and bouncer-ing – think toni's supposed to be out there tonight and they're cool as fuck, cooler than me, so hope you like them bc I like them a lot”

There's a little doodle of Toni looking cool as can be next to the sentence. Swiss laughs. Always so hurried, so rushed. From the way the text changes and warps and grows shaky, it looks like Mary was writing this in between work, maybe on his thigh or something, just trying to capture a lot of thoughts without a lot of time.

The audience claps again, and Swiss claps against his wrist without really looking up.

“I hope you like it bc I never really took anyone to see these shows before, especially not-” and here a couple words are crossed out “my boyfriend” “my partner” “a date” and then finally, properly, “my boyfriend.”

Swiss smiles.

Rosario comes out again – in a sky blue blouse over thin, navy blue trousers, still the same hair – and introduces another performer. Oh, oops. It's super bad manners to be reading that during someone else's performance – he knows that intimately, would never dare- but-

The note?

The... third? Performer comes out – a very pretty young person in a lovely evening outfit – a fur stole, long gloves, an evening gown that drapes to the floor.

Okay. Just a bit more of the note.

“its still kinda weird but this is something I did before and I wanted to get back into it now, and these people make it feel like it's okay to do, yaknow? It used to be dirty dingy clubs and shame and stuff but now it's kind of fun and cool and everyone's playing with it the same way I am, so I hope you like it”

There's a slow “ooh” from the crowd. Swiss looks up at the person – they've taken off the jacket and the gloves, and they're sloooowly peeling away the top of it, exposing a lean swimmer's torso.

Swiss folds the note back up and pockets it again, sipping his drink. The person reminds him of Rain a lot, or Mist, rather, that pretty lady Rain put on sometimes, Mist who was still long and slim and pretty but also sweet and lady-like. Swiss had helped Mountain take Mist apart one time, helping her ease into taking Mountain's hefty girth – it was real cute.

The dress comes away, with pretty stockings the performer luxuriously unclips to a swell of strings, slooooowly rolling them down until their legs are bare. It feels kind of a little perverted watching it, but it's real nice, too.

The performer finishes in a sensuous unpeeling of the last layers, exposing toned muscles and bronze skin. The audience erupts into applause and wolf whistles, and the performer gives a graceful curtsy before traipsing off stage, Rosario taking their place, this time in a short, short minidress that shows off long, elegant legs.

“Thank you, Celeste, that was lovely,” Rosario says, tossing their head, “And finally, assorted patrons and newcomers, our oddest act of the night, our resident lecturer in drag, you know him, you love him – Mary Goore!”

Oh?

Swiss perks, leaning closer on the railing. A few people around him, who no doubt saw him earlier, chuckle.

Mary sashays out with a grin and a fluffy, fluffy dress.

The wolf whistles sing out almost immediately, along with calls of “Teach us, boss!” and “Looking good!”

It's some funny re-imagining of a maid's outfit – black, with hints of white. Long sleeves, puffed at the top, with white cuffs – a big white bow at Mary's throat. A fluffy pinafore apron over the dress, and over his stomach he holds a feather duster.

“Good evening, students,” Mary grins, adopting a prim little pose at the center of the stage. There's fresh-slick blood dripping down from his forelock, pooling along the sharp cheekbones and browbone of his lover's face. “Now y'all are a bunch of working-class, poor as shit nobodies, so I probably don't have to tell you this,” he smirks, throwing open his hands to reveal a massive tear in the dress and frankly realistic-looking gut wound, seeping blood into the white apron, “But capitalism is fucking us!”

Shouts, hoots and hollers, and a few gasps go through the crowd.

“Oh yes, all of us – but especially us working-class, poor-as-shit nobodies!” He gives a little twirl, the fluffy skirt and petticoat flaring and showing off the tops of his stockings, lacy and clipped into a garterbelt, before he plants his heel on a chair left on stage, giving a great view of his pale inner thigh, where Swiss left a hickey just last night. Someone calls from the audience “Where'd you get that?” but Mary's on a roll.

“Oh yes, people, the denigration of domestic work and the devaluation of it is directly tied into both classist ideals of what work is worth and also founded in misogyny, which naturally devalues the kind of caretaking and upkeeping work traditionally assigned to women.”

He tosses the feather duster away, stroking at his throat, his cuffs, the fluffy hem of his skirt, before he returns to the bow, slowly pulling it until it's undone. “What is traditionally considered women's work is completely underestimated under patriarchy. It's considered simple and easy, when managing a household is the furthest thing from easy, especially when your supposed life partner refuses to help at all with it.”

He starts down on the collar, as the blood finally drips down his chin, along his throat.

Swiss is... entranced. It's exactly the kind of weird Mary is, and the exact kind of weird Swiss adores. Mary's bright, cerebral mind, his passion for uplifting the unheard, and of course, a striptease.

“But this doesn't even get into the eroticization and sexualization of domestic work, which is where the real fucking happens,” Mary grins, shimmying his shoulders to the edification of the crowd, who burbles with chatter and approval. “The idea that people in power get off to this kind of shit,” he gives a little shimmy, undoes the cuffs of his sleeves and pushes them over his strong forearms, revealing the street-map tattoos of Linkoping and Berlin, “is disgusting. The fact the best records we have of domestic servitude,” he unties the apron, pulling it over his head and tossing it away, its material wet with fake-blood, “Are because some lawyer was horny for a servant,” he unbuttons the rest of the dress, before it's torn open at the stomach wound, “and she wrote down all her experiences with hard work to feed that horniness. Arthur Munby and Hannah Cullwick, read up on them.”

“The sexualization of the power the landlords and the bosses and the company heads have over us working class people speak to the issues of our system-” Mary reaches into the tear, against the stomach wound – whatever makeup it is is certainly realistic, and it makes a certain wet squelch when he touches it that even Swiss winces at, “The inherent power dynamics of not only of patriarchy, but white supremacy, ableism, and cissexism- the assertion of 'I know what's good for you, what's best for you, but I thrive and succeed on your pain, your suffering, and your debasement!'”

A rallying cry goes up as Mary pulls the dress over his head, the fluffy cupcake petticoat on his hips. His chest is bare, exposing the scarified “S” on Mary's chest. Even seeing it now makes Swiss flush, the oddest, tenderest testament to their thing in stark white above Mary's heart.

“We are more than just objects,” Mary says, leaning back to drop the petticoat onto the stage with a fluff and stepping out of it with a flirty kick, “But in the eyes of the capitalists, we're human capital, sexual playthings, and an infestation to cull.”

The wound is so dramatic – wet and shiny, even with something that almost looks like organs, with fresh blood that dribbles down his hips, running in rivulets down his magnificent thighs, the ones covered in hickeys from last night, into the white stockings he wears. It's nothing but a satin garter belt, those stockings, the high heeled boots so tall Swiss is worried he might fall over but that Mary moves in like they were his regular combat boots, and a pair of lacy panties that just barely shows off the outline of his dick.

“Even though we are the ones supporting them,” he hums, “Even though we maintain their lives, their status- they steal our labor, our lives, all for the edification and gratification of their own!”

Was there music when his performance started? He's not sure there is now. Swiss couldn't say, not when his eyes are completely stuck on how Mary moves, the lurid shimmer of that gut-wound.

“We are more than that, my people! We are more than that and you know it!”

A victorious cheer goes up in the crowd, people getting to their feet and cheering, wolf whistles and shouts going up entirely.

Rosario swans back on stage in a similar dress to the one Mary had been wearing, merrily spinning Mary around under their arm, before guiding him back off stage, even as Mary playfully fights the push.

Hoooly shit.

Swiss swallows and blinks. Okay. So. Not Mary stage managing, but Mary performing. It's- well, it's exactly the kind of weird he loves, and wants from Mary, who gives it freely. Blood and praxis. Those thighs covered in blood – the word _carnal_ comes to mind.

The crowd ebbs, some returning to the bar and others staying to chat as Rosario announces a class on the subject in the library upstairs this weekend, thanking everyone for their time.

Someone -- Salai, maybe -- comes by and guides Swiss away, taking the glass away when he downs the rest of the cosmo in one gulp. The man guides him to a small doorway cut into the brick, settling him against the wall, and tells him to wait.

Swiss sips the bottle of water as he waits. Whoa.

Whoa.

There's nothing cohesive in his brain – a lot of mixed up and jumbled thoughts but all of them point genteelly to him being turned on as hell, Mary's grin and his fluffy hair marred by blood, the lace and satin and the weirdness, the hilarity of doing a speech on the sexualization of domestic work while in a maid costume –

Mostly, the big one that hits him is –

_Lucifer below, I love him._

That's true.

The other performers pass by him, saying hello, giggling, mixing back into the crowds where they fit perfectly. This place has a good vibe. Swiss takes another sip of water, smiling a bit.

There's a warmth to this moment. It's quiet, among the hubbub of the club, and he stands just apart, waiting.

Mary appears a few moments later, in a t-shirt definitely stolen from Swiss that hangs loose on him. The blood's mostly cleaned out of his hair, but his eyeliner's reapplied into kicky cateye that just make his hazel eyes look electric in the low light.

“Switzy!” he calls, raising a hand and traipsing over, “You came-”

Swiss sweeps him up into his arms before he can say anything else, pulling him close into his chest and licking his way into Mary's mouth without delay. Rosario passes behind them as Swiss pulls Mary into the wall, lets out a low, quiet whistle of approval as Mary sags into Swiss's arms.

The kiss breaks, Mary flushed and panting, but grinning widely.

“That good, huh?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanx to my partner for reviewing Mary's speech <3  
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
